


Intimacy with the Universe

by hopipp (fancy2na)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, London, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reincarnation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancy2na/pseuds/hopipp
Summary: East London, 2025. Merlin's current life as a naturopath doesn't warrant much excitement. Except the electricity's been going out a lot lately. And his flat has been exceptionally chilly. The birds have refused to migrate to Africa, and suddenly there are people ice skating on the Thames. A quadruple rainbow gleams over St. Paul's Cathedral after a solid day of baseball-sized hail. For the first time in fifteen hundred years, faces from Merlin's past begin to appear, and he has no doubt in his mind that all of the insanity must mean that Armageddon is coming and the universe didn't think to inform him of this. Quite rude, to be honest.Even weirder than all the apocalyptic nonsense is that he's sure 21st century Arthur Pendragon has beenhitting on him.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	1. Flickering Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to move back home to Canada after living in London for the past two years, and this fic manifested itself out of my longing to go back. The story is an idea I came up with when I should have been working on my dissertation. Whoopsie. Hope you like it!

**Bethnal Green, 19th November 2025.**

_“It’s gonna be a long one, London! Layer up on those jumpers, because meteorologists are now suggesting that the oncoming cold weather bomb might actually be a polar vortex--”_

The radio playing above abruptly flickers, followed by the shop lights. Merlin would have assumed he’d imagined the moment of darkness if not for the shopkeeper furiously rebooting her register afterwards.

“Bloody power grid,” the woman grumbles, jabbing at the keys bruisingly, “Damn city can’t even keep the lights on. We’re _fucked_ this winter.”

Nearby in front of the produce stand, Merlin bags an avocado and recalls the days when smelly oil lamps and messy wax candles lit up the city from North to South. And although the night sky was eons clearer minus the light pollution, he really can’t complain. Despite its faults, electricity might be his favourite innovation from the seventeenth century. There have certainly been less fires. 

_Actually,_ _plumbing takes that particular cake. I’d rather be plummeted back into darkness than have to empty another chamber pot._

Merlin approaches the cashier with his groceries, conjuring a crisp £20 note with the swish of his hand. He regularly uses magic in his day to day life, but mostly for trifling little mundanities like washing dishes, folding laundry, and manifesting spots to sit on the Underground during rush hour. Frankly, people tend to dismiss seeing it as a figment of their own imagination anyways, so he’s not secretive about it in any shape, way, or form. Those few times the Spanish Inquisition, the Soviets, and later the FBI _did_ come after him all Merlin had to do was snap his fingers until all memory of the sorcery was vacant from their pliant human brains. 

(Instant ripening mangoes in the Costcutter _who?_ Not this funky ageless wizard!) 

There aren’t exactly Questing Beasts or rogue Priestesses demanding Merlin’s attention. There hasn’t been for centuries, as the magic of the universe slowly trickled back into the ground until nothing but Merlin stood above it. No, the great Emrys had not died with Camelot when he’d fulfilled the old prophecy. Merlin had spent years pondering why it even mattered now that the earth’s magic is dormant anyways. But agonizing over the purpose of his existence got dreadfully boring, fast. So he doesn’t do that anymore.

 _Life is a waiting game,_ he muses, _and mine is the final boss._

That isn’t to say that Merlin hasn’t kept busy, though. Groceries in hand, he unlocks the front door to his cozy clinic in East London. Smushed between a chip shop and an artsy pub, the place is far bigger than it looks on the inside. He’s been selling home-made elixirs, salves, and medicinal soaps from century old recipes on metal shelves out front where his current secretary Gintare runs reception. In the back there's a few private rooms for patients, a bathroom, and a kitchen/break room for Gintare and guests. 

Merlin has tried every job under the sun out of sheer curiosity but he's always felt compelled to be a healer of some sort. A natural inclination which he supposes is the ghost of Gaius' lasting influence. He can no longer recall his adopted father figure's lined face or kind diction, but that feeling of comfort and belonging associated with the physician has remained true and lasting. His abilities with sorcery have been honed to the limit of flat out necromancy, so he uses naturopathic medicine and massage as a cover to straight up _heal_ patients of their varying ails. And they are none the wiser. 

His clinic is closed on Sundays so he passes through the quiet space to his living quarters. Down the corridor and up the creaky steps leads to Merlin's personal residence which is, quite magically, about the size of a small mansion. (He's collected a _lot_ of stuff over the centuries, okay? And the room containing an endless field of wildflowers is _very_ necessary for his mental health thank you very much. Sometimes one just needs a good frolic below snow capped mountains in the middle of East London on a long day.)

One could certainly say he’s content with this life. He’s made it his, grown comfortable in its impermanence. So when everything changed on a random winter weekday, he simply rolled with that too.

⁂⁂⁂

“Your hands are just _magical,_ Doctor Hunithson. I feel as if I’m twenty again~” an arthritic client swoons after his acupuncture session. “I’ll try to convince my husband to come in sometime. Dear Giuseppe has had a bad knee since the accident. I keep telling him you’re a miracle worker, s’worth coming all the way from Richmond, but he’s been antsy since that Coronavirus situation from a few years back.”

“You’re too kind, Capheus." Merlin chuckles, "I'm happy to do an in-home visit, if that's better?"

"Oh, I couldn't request such a thing, it’s quite far. He’s gotta get his arse out the flat sometime anyways.”

Merlin hands the man his walking stick, "If I’m in the area I can give you a ring. How about that?”

“Well… I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. I’m sure you’re a busy lad.”

“I insist. I’m really not.” Merlin chuckles, walking Capheus to the door, “I’ll keep in touch!”

With a little more reluctance the old fellow is on his way, and Merlin is finally given a moment of reprieve.

“What a sweetie," giggles Gintare, “Richmond is a little far for a house visit though.” 

“It’s fine, I've been meaning to visit the gardens in Kew anyways.” Merlin tells her.

“With all due respect there isn't much to see there in winter, sir.”

“Not with that attitude!” Merlin tuts, retrieving his coat from the coat rack, “Be back in a bit, yeah?”

With a twinkle of the chimes above the door Merlin is welcoming the bite of cold wind at his nose. He’s been booked up all day since 9am. Yes he’s a bit of a workaholic but he enjoys it, and it makes the time fly by. And boy, does Merlin have time. 

He reaches for the engraved bronze cigarette tin in his jacket pocket, pulling one out for a puff. Merlin knows the image of the hippy-dippy naturopath smoking cigarettes is a strange one, but they don’t detriment _his_ health in any way. He supposes some nuance could be spared, as flat out telling people “I’m a millennium old being made of energy itself, bullets, let alone tobacco, can’t exactly hurt me.” didn’t garner much belief. 

The cigarette is to his lips when a voice from beside him says, "Those will kill you, you know."

Merlin takes a long drag, because if only. _Here we go again._ Pretty annoying how he's smoked tobacco since 1492 and only NOW society has decided its bad for you.

"Tell me about it." he comments, and it would have been left at that had _something_ in the strangers voice not compelled him to reconsider. A lilt of familiarity centuries not heard, but instantly striking Merlin like lightning to a tree.

"I suppose it's nothing you haven't been told before. But perhaps it bears repeating?"

It is 2025 and Merlin has not seen anyone from Camelot since before literal science was invented. But there is no mistaking that hair, finer than gold, gleaming like treasure. Or that voice, velvet yet commanding, having just escaped that sculpted mouth. 

He is the spitting image of Merlin's memories-- always the one face he could never forget, for it had been seared forever onto his very soul. How could a coin forget its other side? Arthur doesn’t look a thread out of place in the 21st century, dressed in a crisp Burberry trench. Glossy leather shoes on his feet. His trousers are an expensive-looking custom tailored situation which instantly draw Merlin's eye to his behind-- 

Merlin chokes on his cigarette and nearly hacks out a lung in the process. 

"Woah, that wasn't an invitation to prove me right." Maybe-Arthur says, patting Merlin on the back. Not expecting Maybe-Arthur to freaking _touch him,_ this makes the coughing worse. 

_He’s real._

"Let me get you some water, yeah?" 

“Please.” Merlin doubles over, winded. 

_Is this really happening?_

Fifteen hundred ears. Fifteen hundred years and nothing-- no Arthur, no Gaius, no Gwen or Morgana. Gwaine, Uther, Leon. Not a soul from his first life has ever reappeared so why now? What could possibly be so apocalyptic that this reunion had to happen on an ordinary Tuesday evening outside his clinic on a smoke break instead of during the literal upcoming global-warming induced Armageddon? Even 2020's pandemic which shut the world down for three entire years would have been a more sensible time to kill everyone. You'd think after so long intimate with the universe Merlin would understand it a little more. 

"Here." Arthur returns bearing a tall glass of water. (And not just literally). 

"Thanks." croaks Merlin, draining it instantly. 

"Maybe that was a sign from the heavens." says Arthur cheekily, "Y'know, to quit." 

"Wouldn't be the only sign from the heavens today." Merlin comments, and only after saying it realizes just how it might sound. (Yes, the time alone _did_ completely remove Merlin’s brain-to-mouth filter. At least what was left of it.)

"Oh? Today a fateful day, is it?" 

_I think King Arthur Pendragon is flirting with me,_ Merlin realizes, and nearly erupts into fits all over again. 

_Play along, play along, THE WORST possible thing that could happen right now would be to push him away before understanding why he’s even back._

"If by fateful you mean incredibly embarrassing then absolutely." Merlin reaches out a hand, “I’m Merlin.”

He hopes for a reaction of some sort at his name but all he gets is a very normal handshake and a comment about his tattoo. 

“Arthur. Oh, cool crown.” Arthur flips over Merlin’s hand and sees the intricate crown inked on his right _dorsum manus._ Merlin had got it a decade ago as a reminder. To serve, forever in life and death. A winding dragon on his shoulder followed soon after. 

“Thanks. It was done at Inkworks down the road, they’re good.” Merlin isn’t sure what compelled him to say that when Arthur’s preppy, business casual ensemble leads him to think that tattoos are probably not a topic he’s well versed on.

“Ah, I don’t know it. But I’m not from around here.”

“Where from, then?”

"Kind of all over. Raised in Wales until sixth form in Somerset. Then uni in Oxford, and now I’ve moved to London to work for my father’s company. You?" 

“I’m from here.” Merlin lies. Though he supposes it really isn't a lie, as he's lived in London longer than anywhere else. Something about the city has kept him here. A certain feeling, like home, but not quite right. A most familiar stranger.

“I work next door, actually. That’s my clinic, with the blue sign. I’m a naturopath and masseuse.” 

“A _masseuse,_ huh?” Arthur’s eyes sparkle mischievously, and good lord that look is NOT good for Merlin’s well-being, nope. _Abort abort abort._

“You must be good with your--”

“What’s your father do?” Merlin blurts, because he can’t bear to hear the end of that sentence. He cannot.

“Eh? Oh, uh, he owns th--” a phone starts ringing, and Arthur swears, "-- oh, bollocks, that's my uber." He waves to the guy in the driver's seat in the sleek black Mercedes which has pulled up right in front of them. 

"Ah," says Merlin, panicking a little because _SHIT, he's leaving already? Is that freaking it? When on earth am I gonna run into him again? It can’t just end like this--_

"Here," Arthur pulls out a business card from his pocket and scrawls something down. “See you around?”

It's his number, and Merlin nearly drops his jaw on the floor.

"You know where to find me." he gets out.

“I’ll take that as an invitation for a free massage, then.” With a grin, Arthur steps into the car, and away from Merlin, leaving him very much adjourned. Merlin doesn’t know where to even begin unpacking what just happened, because he still isn’t quite certain that it did. 

He pops his head into the clinic to bark at Gintare to cancel the rest of his appointments for today. Before she can protest he’s gone and collapsed onto a barstool next door.

And then the storm hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I'm an avid merthur fic consumer I don't usually read modern AUs. So this idea very much might have been done five thousand times. It's cool, thanks for reading and I'll try my best to update as soon as I can :) I think there will be about 7 chapters.
> 
> Also let me know if anyone speaks funny. I've tried to britpick my own writing to keep it authentic but there's definitely some stuff I've missed. Cheers!


	2. Snowstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i just want to preface this saying that i might get some canon plot details wrong because its been a few years since ive last watched the series, but i dont really care and hope you dont either :)

**Camelot, Spring 504 CE.**

The succession meeting he'd just adjourned left the young king-to-be desperate to clear his head. He couldn't retain anything his council had said to him, couldn't command his eyes to focus on a single documented word. And so he declared they would continue their business tomorrow and abruptly fled the castle grounds so quick not even Merlin could keep up.

His feet took him here.

The day was pleasantly sunny, with a gentle breeze whispering through freshly bloomed foliage. It was a peaceful spot, like a slice of a fantasy. Arthur had accidentally discovered the meadow one morning while looking for his wayward manservant. And no, he hadn't found him, but he remembered this place and felt compelled to return.

He laid himself down on the soft grass, covered his sight with his arm and tried his best to listen only to the sounds of the sparrows singing away. It was to no avail-- his heart wouldn't quiet. The events of late had him more lost than ever.

 _Morgana..._ his feelings for his sister were a complicated tangle. What she had done to his father-- to _their_ father-- it broke him in two. But that's just it, she was his sister. The only family he really had left (minus Uncle Agravaine, but he didn't trust that bastard as far as Merlin could throw him). Deep down in that complicated tangle, he knew that he could sympathize with all that she had been through.

He hated that Morgana was magical. Of course he did, how could he not? Uther had raised them to believe that magic was this vicious, ugly evil. A wild, unnatural force which corrupted good people and validated bad ones.

(Except was it not Uther that corrupted Morgana first? He planted that hatred inside of her-- inside of them both. She would never have _chosen_ to be magical. To struggle and suffer alone in fear of her own father like some sick joke. Was it not Uther who turned her into the beast she became?)

Arthur lowered his arm, brought his gaze up to the cloudless sky. The mountains in the distance loomed above him, but they felt comforting. Like kind, embracing giants.

Alone in that meadow, he allowed himself to wonder... what if things had played out differently? What if Morgana had told him of her troubles and they had dealt with it together? Perhaps he'd have sent her to a druid camp to learn control of her abilities, or brought in a trustworthy sorcerer to teach her somewhere secret in the castle. Fine, maybe he would have freaked out at first, but Arthur was certain he'd have come around because he too had begun doubting all they'd been taught.

He was unable to deny that when it came to the magical, his father's malice bordered on obsessive. 

For Arthur had had first-hand witness of a different kind of magic. Of soft, guiding spheres of light, like North stars come down from the sky. 

His heart was beginning to change, and he wished his sister had seen it too. That she had trusted in him just a little bit more.

_That's it, isn't it?_

At the core of it all, that he never gave her reason to was perhaps his biggest regret. 

The guilt flooded him through, gripped his heart and squeezed it like a lemon. He didn't know where to go from there, or how to fix any of the mess left behind. All the while running an entire kingdom.

Arthur plucked a wildflower from nearby, brought it closer to admire it's rich blue hue. It was his favourite colour.

He wondered what kind of flower it was. Whether it could be used to heal, or flavour soups, dye fabrics, or scent his bath water.

 _Merlin would know._

Perhaps its purpose was just to grow tall and look pretty, live a carefree life in this hidden meadow with the rest of its kind. 

He inhaled the flower's fragrant scent, brushed his lips against the petals.

King Arthur Pendragon would not admit to being jealous of a freaking plant.

Still, he tucked it away in his lapel and closed his eyes. 

His manservant found him like that as soon as exhaustion took over.

⁂⁂⁂

**Bethnal Green, 23rd November 2025.**

There’s not much that’s special about the White Hart. It’s your typical English pub-- cheap pints, dusty booths, with Wednesday quiz nights and a handful of regulars yelling about Millwall on the telly. It's next door to his clinic, but Merlin hasn't been in often since alcohol doesn’t affect him like it did when he was younger. Usually he's pretty chill with being an almighty magical being but for the first time in a while his inability to get drunk feels like the bane of his existence. Because _what in the sweet fuck just happened?_ How could anyone expect him to process it without liquid assistance?

He gracefully faceplants against the nearest surface.

"Long day?" the patron sitting beside him asks.

"More like long _life."_ Merlin mumbles against the bar counter (ew, it's kind of sticky).

A snort. "I'll drink to that."

Merlin lifts his head on his elbows and calls over the bartender. "D'you have mead?" 

She nods, "Gosnells alright?" 

He flashes her a thumbs up, "Cheers." 

The guy beside him barks a laugh out over his whiskey. "Mead!? What are you, a pirate?" 

"Pirates drank rum, grog, and beer actually."

"Well shit, my bad mister historian."

"I'm a naturopath, not a historian." Merlin informs him, although he guesses he technically _is_ a historian by default. Y'know, having bared literal witness to most of the major events of human activity since the Dark Ages and whatnot. And he _did_ get that PhD in Egyptology at Cambridge way back then. But that was when his fascination with death was over excessive-- the Egyptian idea of spending your entire life preparing for your afterlife intrigued him as an immortal. Plus Nefertiti was SO COOL.

"A natural path? What, you guide hiking trails or something?"

"Not even close." Merlin chuckles, sliding his mead over, “Here, don't knock it until you try it."

There's something about this stranger… it’s like his face is _off._ The hair is far too short, it needs a couple of centimeters. The circular framed glasses are wrong wrong wrong. And he really ought to grow a beard, his bone structure would suit it, almost like-- 

For the second time today Merlin's jaw hits the floor. What on earth is going on? He's missing the armour and the stench of sweat, but that glint of amusement in his eyes, and those laugh lines framing his grin-- it's _Gwaine!_

Merlin's heart races as Gwaine sniffs the mead with a funny grimace.

"Well I never say no to a free drink." he says before taking a sip.

Mead was Gwaine's go-to at the Rising Sun, where they used to laugh and commiserate less often then both Merlin would have liked and Arthur would have believed (Merlin was far too busy with saving the world from dark magic and all that). During the warmer months barmaid Magdalena made a home brew with local Camelot honey, and she had a barrel ready for the knights whenever they returned from an expedition. And while Gosnells holds nothing on Magdalena, it's fermented sweet taste remains distinct and comforting.

“This drink… I’ve had it before, this mellow flavour." murmurs Gwaine, eyes wide, "It's so sweet, it's like..." 

He has a second sip, and Merlin thinks maybe, just maybe… 

"I used to order it all the time… at the tavern… playing dice… with-- with the knights. Knights? Wait, what am I saying...?” Gwaine sets the mead down to hold his head in place, as if he can’t keep it on straight. "You were there too." 

Merlin can hardly believe what’s happening. 

“Woah.” croaks Gwaine.

“Y’alright?”

There's a moment of silence, then, 

“Dunno. I…” 

Something clicks.

“ _Merlin?”_

Merlin wants to cry, he just might, because that's _Gwaine_. His Gwaine, another friend who died younger than he should have during the early years of the Queen's reign. He's here in Bethnal Green in 2025, and it makes no sense but he couldn't care less.

"What the _fuck_ is going on." 

Merlin leaps off the stool to give him a massive hug. 

Oops, damn, he really is crying now. 

"Still a sap, eh?" 

"I missed you." sniffles Merlin, squeezing him tight like he might just disappear into an uber like Arthur did. 

"And I you, old friend." 

More damp hugging and several questioning stares later, the two migrate to a booth to catch up and figure out where to go from here. They both order another glass of mead, this time clinking their glasses together like they used to.

"So your memories just _poofed_ back into your brain?" Merlin asks, trying his best to figure out if any sort of magic is at play. 

"The mead definitely triggered it." Gwaine says, tapping the glass, "It was a little stupefying, I'm sure you could tell. Everything from my current life is still here, but now so is all the past stuff. It feels like I've got double the brain space now. Not that I didn't have a huge brain before." he quips.

"Its just-- I met Arthur today also but he didn't remember. And now I'm wondering, since you remembered, maybe there's some way he can too."

“Well there's definitely a reason this is all happening at once,” Gwaine assumes, “First Arthur, than me? Both on the same day after fifteen hundred years? The world _has_ to be ending. It needs us."

“As far as I'm aware, global warming is the only real threat right now. And you can’t fight global warming with a sword, Gwaine.”

“Old me would certainly try.” the former knight points out, and Merlin can’t help but agree. The mental image of the rogue knight slashing through a giant plastic straw with a sword comes to mind.

"Wait, am I now a brain _and_ a brawns kind of guy?"

"Hm, don't know about that." Merlin teases, taking another swig.

"You're one to talk. For the record, I always knew you were a sorcerer. Way before everything went to shit.” 

“Hah. Wasn’t very subtle, was I?”

“Not in the slightest." says Gwaine, "But you had the princess fooled. Although he might have just been in denial.”

Merlin sets his drink down. “I actually did tell Arthur. He took it fine, but it was literally right before he…” 

_Once again, I am wishing I could get drunk,_ he thinks dejectedly. 

“Shit, sorry.” Gwaine places a comforting hand on his friend's forearm, “I didn’t mean to steer the conversation there.”

“S’okay. I’ve had a long ass time to reflect on it. Longer than anyone else has had for anything, ever.”

And it’s true, Merlin’s gone through all the stages of grief in order, then reversed, then back again. He’s spent many a night wide awake beneath the moonlight wondering what exactly the point of any of that part of his past was. Countless days spent searching and waiting, just because the old prophecy proclaimed Arthur was not just the _Once_ king but the _Future_ one as well.

And see… eventually enough of life went by that Merlin realised what a great load of flaming hot bullshit prophecies are. Because it was _Gwen_ who brought Camelot together. _She_ decriminalised sorcery, opened the land to druid trade, and established magical villages in town. She pardoned the banished, welcomed them back with promises of prosperity, and eventually even introduced magic users at the round table. Merlin served as her court sorcerer for a few years before her eventual passing, where she named Sir Leon’s oldest son as heir to the throne of her hard-won magical kingdom. 

Arthur may have helped set the gears in motion but crediting the man for what Gwen had done discounted her achievements and slandered her name. As a servant-turned-ruler, then a widow, the difficulty she faced earning the trust of the people was monstrous. The council itself, filled with snooty old nobles Merlin would have loved to hex to hell and back, stood in her way as immovable objects. She was nearly deposed and assassinated countless times. Gwaine himself was killed in a war with Mercia over her radical ideas. (That Merlin hadn't been there was yet another regret in the towering pile that he had to learn to move on from.)

But the former queen had friends in high places, the patience of a god, and nerves of solid steel. She was a blacksmith's daughter and had the will of one too. 

Thinking back on it now, the time it took for Merlin to give credit where credit was due shames him. He was in over his head for Arthur, he’s long accepted that. He put the man on a pedestal higher than he had to show for. And that’s not to say Merlin doesn’t believe Arthur would have taken Camelot where Gwen had if things had played out differently. It’s just that feminism opened Merlin’s eyes to reality, and introspection allowed him to soothe his broken heart.

“I still can’t believe you’re fifteen hundred years old.” Gwaine exasperates.

“So are you, kind of.” he points out. “At the very least you’re over sixty if you add in your past life.”

“Huh. Well we’re sexy for a bunch of dinosaurs, eh?"

Gwaine winks cheekily, and Merlin grins, flashing teeth.

“I’ll drink to that.” 

Except he doesn’t get to, because the moment it reaches his lips the lights flicker. A glass somewhere shatters, and the men watching football start losing their shit at the telly which is now just showing static. 

"When did it start snowing?" someone nearby wonders.

It had been chilly when he saw Arthur earlier but looking outside now, it's like they're trapped in a snowglobe. 

_Somethings not right_ , he thinks, walking up to the window. The wind is picking up, fast, whooshing loud and angry.

Gwaine stands beside him, arms crossed. "Damn, there's no way I'm walking to the Underground in that."

"Why don't you stay at mine? I live next door." Merlin offers. He hasn't had anyone up in a while and the company sounds nice. 

"Really? Thanks mate.” Gwaine claps him on the back a little too hard, “I'll just have to ask my roommate to feed Percy for me." 

"Uh, Percy?" Merlin raises his eyebrows.

"Percy’s my iguana." Gwaine says, "Oh wait, oh my god, the _name."_

He facepalms. Merlin sighs.

"Did I subconsciously name my iguana after my dead medieval friend?"

"Why do you have an iguana…"

"Why _don't_ you have an iguana?" 

Merlin reaches for his coat, "Touché"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's coming next chap I promise! And the flower he was holding was boreal jacob's ladder/polemonium boreale.
> 
> Also sorry but not sorry about my shameless Gwen worshipping. And just you wait there's much more ahead.


End file.
